


This Time Around (we'll get it right)

by leaderinrhetoric



Series: Back to the Past [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Courfeyrac being Courfeyrac, F/M, M/M, Modern Era, Multi, Time Travel, he just loves everyone back off, headcannons, honestly its Mature for language and maybe future stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-17
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-07 23:11:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3186788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leaderinrhetoric/pseuds/leaderinrhetoric
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's things that are worse than being stuck in the future with your best friends. But as of right now, Enjolras thinks it's pretty high up on the suck-scale. Grantaire is attractive, for one, which confuses and arouses Enjolras, his best friends are kind of in love with each other, and there's some random blonde chick following Pontmercy like a duck. And the most important problem is that they are stuck in England, and need to get back to France to get back to the past. But it's a bit harder than they thought, because someone is out to keep them in the future, and someone is a stubborn fuck-stick.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. New world, new emotions, accidental boners

The sun was beaming down on Enjolras’ face, heating his cheeks, and burning his nose. He could feel grass between his toes, which were, for some reason, bare. His golden hair was matted in its ponytail, resting between his neck and the ground and making him itch. He felt dirty, like Feuilly’s clothing was when he showed up at l’ABC meetings.

            Enjolras heard a groan off to his left, and cautiously opened his eyes, peering over to his left side, where he saw Feuilly. But, kind of… not Feuilly.

            His hair was still fiery orange, his freckles still evident, dirt still encrusted on his nails, but his skin was fawn colored, and his clothes were no longer the filthy trousers and linen blouse that he had worn for work. Instead his work clothes were replaced by raggedy, cut off pants of an unknown material, and a shirt with cropped sleeves and colorful designs in the shape of what looked bat-like. English words were written above the symbol and Enjolras squinted at them, somehow understanding them, even though he was only brought up of French.

            “Bat-mon,” Enjolras muttered, his accent butchering the name.

            “Be quiet, I’m asleep,” Combeferre, on his right, groaned pitifully.

            “You’re not asleep if you’re conversing with me, ‘Ferre,” Enjolras replied quietly. He turned his head to look at Combeferre, and let out a startled shriek.

            “What?” Combeferre exclaimed, bolting upright. His hair, once long and reaching the nape of his neck, was now shaved on both sides, leaving a patch of shortly cropped hair in the back, leading to a longer, sleek fringe in front of his eyes. He was wearing wide-framed, square spectacles, along with a vest and button-up shirt, which was rolled to the elbows. Coincidentally, this style of sleeve length revealed inked marking up and down both of his arms. They were colorful and bright, and showed up very clearly on Combeferre’s dark skin.

            “What?” Combeferre repeated, more aggressively, likely due to Enjolras’ speechless mouth hanging open.

            “You’re… you look very different. I mean, I can tell it is you, but… you look so _different_ ,” Enjolras murmured, reaching out to poke at the inkings on Combeferre’s arms. Combeferre’s eyes widened as they followed Enjolras’ hand.

            Combeferre’s whimpers of distress were cut off by a howling scream, coming from none other than Marius Pontmercy. His once long hair was chopped close to the sides of his head, spiking up, peaking in the shape of a sandy brown crown. His freckles were darker, more prominent, and his eyes greener. His shirt was without sleeves, his arms golden in the sun, spattered with more freckles, and his pants were cropped at the knee and made with an odd, plaid-patterned material. But otherwise he looked much the same as he had looked last night at l’ABC meeting.

            Combeferre tapped Enjolras’ shoulder, startling him out of his scrutiny of Marius.

            “You look very interesting, too. Different, like you said I appeared to be,” Combeferre stated, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously. “You’re hair’s the same as it was. But you’re… um… you’re wearing a lady’s garments.”

            Enjolras straightened with shock, then anxiously peered down at himself. Indeed, Combeferre had been right. He was wearing a soft, red and white frock, which hit right at his knees. His legs were hairless and his feet were stained green from the lawn he stood on.

            “‘Interesting’ was a fine choice of words, Combeferre,” Enjolras said, running his hands over the material of the dress. It was worn and… breezy. Enjolras self-consciously slid his hands over the back of his dress and down the sides to make sure it wasn’t blowing up and revealing any part of him.

            A soft laugh made shivers go up Enjolras’ spine, and he whipped in the direction of the culprit. It was Grantaire, whose arms were scattered with bright marking like Combeferre’s. Enjolras could see vines and grapes distinctly, but others were more difficult to comprehend what they were. Grantaire padded over to Enjolras, his hair blowing over his eyes with the soft summer wind.

            “You’re in a dress. Are you advocating the rights of men _as well_ as women?” Grantaire teased, his blue eyes sparkling with mirth.

            “Be quiet. Do you know what’s happened? Did you do something?” Enjolras raged, grasping Grantaire’s dark green jacket. His jacket covered a shirt with the name of a musician on it, as well as a skull. Not a very realistic skull, but nonetheless it resembled a cranium. Grantaire’s eyes were wide once Enjolras’ gaze had returned to the man’s face.

            “Believe me, dearest Apollo, I had nothing to do with such a fanciful trick that is being played on us. However, I do have an idea as to _what_ _is_ going on. I think we may be in the future.”

            “Be serious, Grantaire!” Enjolras chided, his hand wrinkling Grantaire’s shirt even more in its vicious grip.

            “I am wild,” Grantaire stated softly, his eyes meeting Enjolras’ own. He was visibly more attractive in this “future” world, as Grantaire had suggested. His hair was not matted like it had been, or almost grey with dirt, paint, and anxiety. It was jet black, and curled neatly around his head like a raven’s wings. His eyes were brighter, though that could have been attributed to the natural light. His hands were still caked in paint, as were his pants, which were the same material as Feuilly’s. They were cuffed at the ankle, and he wore black shoes with purple laces, neatly tied into bows.

            Enjolras must have taken a long time to assess Grantaire’s new corporal traits, as Grantaire cleared is throat and pried Enjolras’ hand from his shirt. Enjolras snapped his head up, coughing quietly and looking away.

            He found that while he was talking to Grantaire, the rest of the group had awoken, perplexed and letting out exclamations as they looked around at their peers. Jehan Prouvaire was playing with his incredibly long hair, an amused expression on his pale face. Marius was talking to a girl that Enjolras didn’t know, one with long blonde ringlets who stared up at him reverently. Another young woman stood between Joly and Bossuet, whom Enjolras recognized as their lover, Musichetta. It was no secret that the three were in a relationship of some sort, however, the students tended not to discuss it, as it was quite unheard of. Her skin was dark, but otherwise her features were unchanged. Joly’s skin was the color of clover honey, while Bossuet’s was the color of rich chocolate. The group was huddled together, trying to calm Joly down from the probable event of him having a panic attack. Bahorel was talking to Feuilly. His skin was almost as dark as Grantaire’s hair, bright ink coloring his arms in splotches, and it looked as if his hair was pulled back into long braids down to his shoulder blades. Courfeyrac was speaking quickly to Combeferre under a tree nearby, his short curly hair unchanged. His clothing, however, was ridiculous. He wore a bright orange sleeveless shirt, paired with yellow pants that, like Marius’ were cut at the knees. A girl, whom Enjolras had seen at rallies or meetings occasionally, was hovering near Marius, her dark hair pulled into a ponytail that swished like a nervous horse’s tail.

            After surveying his companions, Enjolras brought his attention back to Grantaire, who was still staring at their friends, an entertained grin crooking his lips up unevenly.

            “So,” Enjolras began, “You believe that we are in the future?”

            Grantaire looked back at Enjolras, a lazy elegance in the way he glanced at the leader. “I do. I’m sure how or why, but we should explore. Find a source of news, look around, _listen_ to people. That’s something you’ll have trouble with.”

            Enjolras was affronted. “I listen to people!”

            “If you did listen to others, you’d make better decisions,” Grantaire chuckled, turning his face away from Enjolras. His eyelashes made shadows on his stubbled cheeks. His skin was the color of whiskey, his face free of scars excepting one pink dash through his left eyebrow. He was nice to look at, completely the opposite of what he had looked like before. It had been hard to look at his face straight on, or at profile, or at all for very long. His nose had been crooked, broken from a brawl he had been in once; now his nose was large and slightly hooked, but looked right on his face. Enjolras looked at the man’s hands, paint covered and veined. His knuckles were red and raw, possibly from fighting, and his fingers were thick, but long. They seemed almost dainty, very fitting of an artist, such as the man claimed to be, though Enjolras had never seen any of his works, not even when he visited Grantaire’s tiny apartment just outside of Paris- which was on the very rare occasion.

            Enjolras shook himself out of his thoughts as Combeferre and Courfeyrac returned to the group, both looking worried and confused.

            “We’ve decided that we have no clue as to what is happening,” Courfeyrac stated as he approached. Up close, Enjolras could see that he was darker skinned, like the inhabitants of Spain. Maybe the future was more diverse, because almost every student had changed from a white European to a mix of cultures and ethnicities. The future was, hopefully, more accepting. 

            “ I think we’re in the future. I don’t know as to why or how we got here, but it seems as though the entire world has changed. I don’t even know if we’re still in France,” Grantaire huffed, looking at his wrist. A spring-powered clock sat upon his bony wrist, though it was different from the one Enjolras carried around. It was bright pink, and instead of a cover that would open when pressed, the face was open to the air. It was lit, like a tiny blue candle, and it illuminated small numbers that changed with each passing moment. “I found this on my wrist when I woke up. It tells today’s date, if it is indeed correct, as well as the time of day. I have pushed every button on it, but it will not tell me where we are. But, apparently, it is the year 2015. I have been watching the skies and there seem to be enormous ships in the air. I think they must transport people.”

            Courfeyrac looked up immediately at Grantaire’s words, squinting his eyes to catch a glimpse of such aircraft. He looked back down after a moment of pensive surveillance. “If what you say is true, and the little device on your arm is correct, we _are_ in the future.”

            “But _how?_ It is impossible!” Combeferre exclaimed, brushing the chunk of hair that wasn’t shaved off out of his eyes. He adjusted the glasses on his face and proceeded. “Even _if_ we were in the future, something must have caused it. And it must have been someone from this world, as they likely have the advancements to do so!”

            “Then we must find them!” Bahorel cried, crashing into Grantaire’s back and nearly knocking the man over with his weight. “We need to search around and find a town! Someone will surely know where we are!”

            “Found a town,” Feuilly said, his tone uninterested. He pointed in the direction of a large hill on the vast spread of grass that they stood on. “It’s over the hill. Do we all go, or do we send out a search party?”

            “Everyone knows that splitting up never leads to anything beneficial,” Musichetta interjected, shrugging her hair over her shoulder to swish against her back. “We need to all go, as boisterous and confusing as it may be. It will be less confusing and less stressful if we all arrange to go together. “

            “Musichetta is right,” Joly mused, interrupted by a loud groan of “Of course she is!” from Grantaire. Enjolras nudged the man in the ribs. “We should all go into town and ask around. Together. And, hopefully, there won’t be any contagious viruses or plagues going around town this time of year.”

            “Don’t worry, Joly, I’m sure such viruses are well contained. It is the future. They must have better care for the sick,” Bossuet placated, stroking Joly’s dark hair.

            Marius, the blonde girl, Éponine, and Jehan strode over to the group, and the students talked of their plan to ask around town for information.

            “Under no circumstances will you go anywhere without the rest of us, Marius, I’m speaking directly to you, and you will report all findings back to me. Understood?” Enjolras commanded, giving Marius an extra imperious glare, which the boy replied to with a whimper of understanding.

            “Yes, glorious leader,” Grantaire droned, his lips pulling into a lopsided smirk. Enjolras really wished he were less of a distraction, as the blood rushed southward. He pulled himself together, turning away from the group and marching towards the hill over which they would find the town Feuilly spotted.

            “Just focus for once,” Enjolras barked, his head held high and his face forward. _Just focus_ , he thought. _I can do that._ _Right?_  


	2. Fast Food and Prophets' Pamphlets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The gang explore the town they are abandoned near to find food, and end up finding a possible way home.

Feuilly was given the lead, Enjolras and Bahorel right behind him, while the rest of the group trailed behind at different paces. There was a town, as Feuilly had said, and it sat just below the hill that they had been stranded on. Everything was made of metal and brick, the roofs glinting silver and copper with the sunlight, and the people milling about below. Grantaire felt uneasy about going into town, even though the group had checked and many of them had enough coins to buy rooms and meals for a few days. The coins they had weren’t the French Franc, which they were so used to. In their stead were smaller, silver, gold, and copper coins, some thick and ridged around the sides, others thin and smooth. There were some paper notes as well, some with French written on them, some with what Enjolras said was probably anglaise.  
Grantaire was perturbed, still, mainly as he did not know where they were. Due to the English coinage, Bahorel had guessed that they might be in England. Grantaire hoped not, because that meant it would take much longer to get home to his flat and his flagons of wine. As uncomfortable as he was, he said nothing, his heart rabbiting in his chest.  
When they reached the town, they set out in search of food first, finding a small restaurant that served “fast food”. Goodness knows they needed it. Grantaire’s stomach rumbled with famishment, and he heard Combeferre’s stomach growl as well as they approached the smell of grease and salt, and entered the “McDonald’s” that was on the corner of the street the group was on.  
Grantaire and Feuilly were on duty for getting food, as their waggish charm would keep the group from receiving odd looks. This was discovered to be a problem for the group, as their French proclamations of horror at the state of the restaurant and poor Joly’s distress at the grease-stained seating was attracting the attention of the townspeople.  
When Grantaire returned to the large table at which the rest of the group was seated, he called out the orders people had made, tossing poorly wrapped sandwiches to Bossuet and Musichetta, who gratefully nabbed their meals and swiped napkins from under Enjolras’ elbow. He handed out the rest of the order with Feuilly, grabbing tableware for Combeferre, who had gotten a salad along with his meal.  
However, their “meals” were incredibly greasy and unpleasant to the taste buds.  
“This isn’t meat, this is dog shit,” Bahorel cried, wiping his hands on Feuilly’s t-shirt. The red-haired man squawked indignantly, rubbing the newly formed stain with a fresh napkin.  
“It isn’t exactly filet mignon, but it must suffice,” Combeferre stated sagely.  
“Says the man eating his salad first,” Enjolras mumbled, grabbing at one of the many potato cakes on the tray in the center of the table. Grantaire chuckled.  
“I do hope this place has better food,” Marius’ friend, the blonde girl, huffed. “I’d rather be eating something my Papa made than this.” She let out a cherubic giggle, then realized nobody knew what she was talking about. “My Papa is a terrible cook.”  
Grantaire hummed. “I’ve heard stories of Enjolras’ attempts at cooking. It didn’t sound pretty.”  
“You told me you wouldn’t speak of that incident!” Enjolras chided, facing Courfeyrac, who was stuffing his mouth full of the grease-sandwiches and potato cakes.  
Courfeyrac shrugged. “It came up. I’d had a bit of wine. Pardon my silly tongue, Enjolras.”  
Enjolras grumbled more, his arms crossed over his chest, and a blush creeping up his long, graceful neck. He was still wearing the dress he had appeared in when they first landed in this future world; however, Grantaire hadn’t had the time to study him. Like most of their group, several of his facial features had lingered into the future; his eyes were still stormy blue, his lips still pouty and his face still feminine. But now, his slender limbed were muscled in a way that they hadn’t been, his cheeks and nose freckled from the sun, and his hair was golden, more blonde than sandy brown like it had been. His brows were less severe, but when he frowned he still gave off an air of importance and dignity.  
Grantaire studied their group throughout le dejeuner, staying quiet as Enjolras and Combeferre discussed their next move, Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta tittered and teased each other, Marius and the lady beside him conversed, and the brunette girl off to Marius’ other side stared longingly at the lovely pair.  
Sliding into the open chair next to her, Grantaire made pleasantries. Her name was Éponine; she was a friend of Marius’ and had no idea why she was here, instead of back home in their own time. The two discussed the group, Grantaire introducing everyone he knew, which excluded the blonde girl next to Marius. Éponine said her name was Cosette, and that her family had taken Cosette in after the girl’s mother had died of illness.  
They were interrupted by Enjolras clearing his throat, attracting the attention of the group, as well as that of some noisy neighbors.  
“We will look around town for a place to stay the night, and stay there until we can figure out how we got here, and why,” Enjolras stated solemnly, his blonde curls swaying as he turned his head to look around the table. His eyebrow raised in Grantaire’s direction, as if daring him to object. Grantaire smiled, shrugging. His response confused Enjolras, as the golden man’s face rumpled in bewilderment.  
“I thought you would have argued against me,” Enjolras sighed, shoulder-to-shoulder with Grantaire, as their group filed out of the restaurant. “You have been only helpful since we landed here. You have not argued my ideas or disagreed with my plan of action. Why is that?”  
“Possibly because I have no goddamned idea why we are here, and you’re a logical being, so I assume you won’t get us all killed for extraneous reasons,” Grantaire stated, amused.  
Enjolras frowned at him again. “If you had no idea, you wouldn’t have suggested your idea that we are in the future.”  
“It was a somewhat reasonable speculation as to what happened, however we still have the why, how, and who to figure out,” Grantaire said, watching the group travel ahead of them, Combeferre occasionally checking back to make sure they had not strangled each other.  
“That’s what distresses me most,” Enjolras huffed, smoothing his dress down again. He did not seem uncomfortable under the stares of many passerbys’ glances or glares. In fact he seemed to proudly wear the ladies’ garment, though he was not used to the apparent breeziness that the dress caused.  
“Everything about this distresses you,” Grantaire murmured, glancing up at the man, who rolled him eyes angrily.  
“I have to be if you won’t,” Enjolras grumbled.  
“Combeferre, I’m sure, shares your sense of distress, possibly Joly, and Marius, and Courfeyrac isn’t exactly pleased by this situation. You heard them at lunch. Everyone wants to leave here and return to our time,” Grantaire stated. “Why do you need me to be logical with you?”  
“Because, you’re intelligent, Grantaire,” Enjolras snapped, stopping the artist with an arm to his sternum. “You hardly use your intelligence, but you have wit, you are talented, you—”  
He was cut off by delighted exclamations from Bahorel and Courfeyrac.  
“I know where we are!” Bahorel smiled, brandishing a pamphlet with English words written across it, but the title was clear: “Map Of London, England”.  
“Londres?!” Cosette exclaimed in French. “We are in England? How did this happen? Why?”  
“We don’t know,” Enjolras growled at her, startling the little bird-like lady.  
Cosette, apparently, could stand up for herself, however. “Look, I understand you and your friends have a plan, but I’m not aware of it, sir! Your maladroit manners and your lack of interest in giving out information to people who need it seems to be a fault of yours, I believe, and I will not be treated as a child in this situation!”  
The group was silent, save for a couple of stunned gasps from a few of its members, namely Combeferre and Jehan. Marius sighed lovingly, like the maudlin fool he was.  
“She’s right you know,” Grantaire chortled, his shoulder grazing Enjolras as he passed him, striding over to Bahorel and snatching the pamphlet out of the stunned man’s hands.  
“Thank you,” Cosette said softly, her cheeks pink from the excess of attention.  
“‘Tis the future, is it not? I’m sure women should be able to express their opinions however they wish in this age,” Grantaire smiled, turning his face in her direction. Her cheeks reddened furiously again.  
Enjolras was fuming behind him, Grantaire could feel the heat of his glare on his back, but ignored the vicious stare in favor of facing Bahorel.  
“Bahorel, where did you find these pamphlets?” he asked, waving around the paper in his hand.  
“Over in that shelf of pamphlets,” Bahorel said, pointing to a corner store that had a massive case of the booklets.  
“What are you doing?” Enjolras hissed, strutting over to Grantaire, who had rushed to the case and began searching through it.  
“Finding out who can help us get back to the past,” Grantaire mumbled, rummaging through and finding a particularly interesting leaflet. He looked through it, nodding.  
“What is it?” Enjolras demanded, peering over Grantaire’s shoulder.  
“Something we can use to our advantage,” Grantaire replied softly, smiling down at the cover of the pamphlet stating, “Prophecies: Real and Revealed”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um, again, thanks of reading! I really hope you liked it! I'm trying to update every week or two, but bare with me if it takes a little longer, as I have commitments such as school and work and all. So thanks! And I hope you continue to read this! Also the format is kinda different and I'm still trying to figure it out so... sorry. hope it's still legible for all of you.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first post on AO3, so easy on please? I love the Les Mis fandom, but I'm pretty new to it as all, so hope you like it and it will probably have more than one chapter, maybe even be a series. I dunno. It started out as a request from my friend the lovely gigantichounds on tumblr, so check her out as well as me (im-only-joking) Thanks!


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